


Fantasy Island

by Ivorysilk



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Family, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivorysilk/pseuds/Ivorysilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Enterprise is scheduled for shore leave, at a planet where your wildest fantasies can and do come true.  Jim has plans for this leave, and he wants Bones along for the ride.  McCoy goes along, because when your boyfriend has had a crap year, giving in to whatever he reasonably wants is the least you can do.  But McCoy thinks he is prepared for whatever it is Jim has conjured up.  He isn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantasy Island

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a repost, and was initially written years ago for the anonymous kink meme, for [this brilliant prompt by the_dala](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink/8893.html?thread=28548541#t28548541) (slightly spoilery; full text contained in the end note!).
> 
>  **Spoilers:** Everything Trek (except "Into Darkness", as this was written in Sept. 2009), and nothing at all. Set in the AOS 'verse.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Lack of beta. Language. Adult themes and suchlike. Otherwise, nothing specific, other than that which is suggested by the prompt. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for fun, and because I have no self-control and wickedly covet other people's things.
> 
> Initially posted also to my LJ, here: [Fantasy Island](http://ivorysilk.livejournal.com/12499.html)

“So, you all set for this shore leave? They promise this planet’s like nothing else you’ve ever seen.” McCoy was grinning as he sat on the edge of the bed in their quarters, leaning down to peel off socks as he got ready for bed.

“Yeah, that’s what they say. It’s supposed to make your every fantasy come true.” Jim smiled, pulling off his shirt, but it was clearly forced. He wasn’t meeting McCoy’s eyes.

In some other universe, Jim would have had a sensitive lover. That wasn’t this universe. McCoy’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the other man. 

“So, what gives, Jim? Every other shore leave, you’ve been raring to go. Hell, you were bouncing off the walls before Risa. And Bacchus III is supposed to be absolutely amazing. So, why aren’t you excited?” McCoy paused a minute, subjecting Jim to the kind of close scrutiny only a doctor with years of experience could manage. “You’re not thinking of staying on the ship, are you? Because as your CMO, I _will_ force you to go if I have to. You haven’t had a break in months, and despite what you think, no one …”

“No, Bones,” said Jim quietly, interrupting the start of a truly magnificent McCoy tirade. “I’m going tomorrow—I’ve already paid them a shit-load of credits. Don’t worry.”

“What then?” asked McCoy in exasperation. “Because you are definitely not behaving like a man scheduled for three full days of shore—that’s a whole 72 hours, Jim, of no work whatsoever--leave after working like a dog for almost four months.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jim was trying for one of his patented shit-eating “don’t worry about me I’m so totally fine I’m completely _awesome_ ” grins that fooled no one at all anymore. Mostly because they usually preceded massive amounts of blood loss and possible cardiac arrest. McCoy, in particular, had learnt that lesson since all the way back at the Academy, and the crew of the Enterprise were bright kids, and most of them had caught on fairly quickly.

“When you say something like that, I know for sure I have to worry about it. So what is it, Jim? Spill, and make it easier on both of us.” McCoy’s tone was sharper than he’d intended, but Jim’s manner was making him incredibly tense.

There was a long pause. McCoy was a bastard, though, and didn’t break the awkward silence, much as he was tempted. Until, finally, Jim turned to look at him and asked, unexpectedly, “You … you love me, right?” 

Jim’s voice was uncharacteristically tentative, which did nothing to quell McCoy’s sudden fear. Bluntly, he replied. “You know I do. But the fact you have to ask makes me nervous.” McCoy would have liked to sound soothing, but he sounded annoyed instead. He was starting to freak out; an absolutely unwanted image of Joss asking to have a “talk” before she told him she wanted a divorce flashing through his mind. 

He forced himself to dismiss it, and focus on Jim. Jim was so completely unlike Jocelyn it didn’t even bear comparison.

“Will you do something for me, then?” Kirk asked quietly. 

McCoy looked up at the other man for a moment. If anyone had ever told McCoy that Jim Kirk could be meek, a few years ago, McCoy would have laughed in their face. But the years of friendship, and the several months of more-than-friendship, had allowed McCoy an insight into the man behind the flashy veneer, and had allowed Kirk to relax enough to permit McCoy to see behind the flashy veneer. It was a trust McCoy intended never to abuse.

McCoy forced himself to calm. “Come here,” he demanded instead.

Jim hesitated, almost but not quite imperceptibly, which made McCoy even more nervous. He ignored it, though, and when Jim got close enough, he reached out a hand to tug the other man down beside him on the bed, allowing him to wrap his arms around him. 

Jim was so tense McCoy almost felt like he could break him in two.

“First, you need to breathe. Come on, Jim, I know you can do it. Children can do it, and with your mentality, I know you can too. Relax. It’s just me.” He kept his tone light.

“I’m being an idiot,” Jim muttered, trying to pull away.

McCoy held on tighter, not allowing the retreat. “Of course you are. I love you anyway. What’s wrong, darlin’?

Jim tensed a moment more, before finally relaxing and settling into the embrace. McCoy let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. “You … I …”

Jim didn’t continue. He just sat there. But at least he was breathing.

This time, McCoy gave in and broke the silence. “Yes. You and I. What?”

“We’re on the same shore leave party.” Jim’s voice was a study in neutrality.

“We usually are. Is that a problem?” McCoy snapped out. Now he _was_ getting annoyed. This was like pulling teeth, and it was late and he was _tired_.

“No! I mean … would it be ok if … “

“Jim. I’m not a young man, and I’m getting older by the second. Spit it out.”

“I wasn’t lying. I am planning on going. I have, actually, been planning it for a long time—I … don’t be mad, I know you probably won’t be really keen on this place, but I really wanted to try it. And Bones … I know you probably have your own plans and all, and I should have asked earlier, I guess, if I’d wanted, but if it would be ok … I want you to be a part of my Experience. If you don’t mind. If you have something you really want to do, I could authorize some extra …” 

Jim was rambling, and Bones simply interrupted him with a raised eyebrow and an explosive, “Your _what_?

******************************

Clearly, McCoy hadn’t read the shore leave information packet on his PADD as closely as Jim had because, apparently, that’s what Bacchus III called their shore leave packages: ‘Experiences’. Anything you could dream up, they could and would program for you, as long as you signed the appropriate waivers. That explained all the excitement over the past week, then, McCoy reflected. McCoy hadn’t paid much attention to the chit-chat, too focused on getting through everything he needed to do before he could afford the time away—but the crew, especially the younger crewmembers—had been _buzzing_. 

It was a wonder, McCoy thought, as he scrolled through the material, that Bacchus was still allowed to get away with providing half of what they did. Now that he thought about it, several of the crew members had been talking—this place apparently was one of the most coveted shore leave destinations, and had generated a _lot_ of crew enthusiasm. It made more sense, now, although he'd dismissed it at the time--because some of the stories McCoy had heard were very … extreme. 

It all looked very glossy and organized and official, though. As he scanned through the information, McCoy couldn’t help but notice the piles of forms and waivers—which looked like they’d would take _days_ to complete—because there were waivers and confidentiality clauses for _everything_. There was even an elaborate waiver just for _beaming down_. Private fantasies were apparently serious business, but were not to be used for anyone else’s profit except the Management’s. Which, apparently, was also sworn to confidentiality.

There _was_ a section explaining all the precautions to make sure no one would be too injured or distressed by their Experience, emphasizing how safe and approved and regulation it all was—McCoy paid particular attention to that part, at least, because the last thing he needed was a bunch of crew in his sick bay afterwards--but a whole shitload of waivers, still. Apparently lawyers could never be too sure. 

Still, Starfleet brass apparently _had_ approved of this place, and while McCoy had his doubts (who ever thought it was a fine idea to set a bunch of traumatized soldiers fresh out of deep space loose in their deepest, darkest fantasy was, in McCoy’s opinion, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but then, McCoy frequently wondered about the collective IQ of Starfleet brass, so that wasn’t so surprising), but the decision had already been made long ago. Because Jim had approved it without asking. Again. 

Sometimes, McCoy wished Jim remembered that sometimes, consultations and committees were _good_ things, and that he didn’t need to do everything and decide everything himself. That that was, in fact, why he had senior officers—not just to play chess with or fuck. 

Although, that wasn’t quite fair. Jim was a good Captain, and for everything that mattered, he almost always consulted with his officers. He was, in fact, really good about listening to advice, and relying on and encouraging leadership among his people when he should. McCoy wasn’t sure why he was being so hard on Jim right …

“So, will you?” Jim’s voice was still somewhat tentative, as he waited for McCoy to finish reading. 

“Huh? Oh, of course. Is that it?” McCoy rolled his eyes at Jim’s dramatics. Was that really all it was? Jim wanted to try out something, and wanted McCoy to participate? If he’d been into some kind of bondage or whatever, McCoy was surprised Jim hadn’t just asked. That kind of thing wasn’t so special or unusual, and as a doctor, McCoy had certainly seen a lot more than that. And Jim wasn’t generally reticent about his needs in bed—or at least, he hadn’t seem so.

On the other hand, Jim had been fairly … active, at the Academy. And he’d obviously been thinking about this for a long time. Maybe it _was_ more than that. Hmm. This could be _really_ interesting. 

Looking up, though, McCoy noted the tension in his frame, in the line of his jaw. That wasn’t like Jim; then again, he got wound up over the _weirdest_ things. While things that mattered, though—serious injury, for example—things that _normal_ people got worked up about, that sort of stuff Jim never deigned to worry about. It was enough to drive a man to drink.

Jim nodded slowly, still looking quite freaked out, but more relieved. Perhaps stronger words were needed. Maybe something else was wrong? But wow, was he tired. He wondered, surely insensitively, if Jim couldn’t have picked a less exhausting night to have his weird moment of insecurity.

“Jim, we’ve been friends a long time, before we got involved, and I trust you. Are you worried I’ll be shocked? I’m a doctor, so that’s unlikely. Some of the things I’ve heard would likely curl _your_ toes. And I didn’t have anything in particular planned, so don’t worry about that either. Relax. This’ll be fun. And after the last several weeks, I think the problem is you're overdue for a dose of fun. All right?” He punctuated his words with a kiss on the side of Jim’s head.

Jim nodded again, as if speech was beyond him. Huh. Speechless Jim that did not involve sex was something. If he hadn’t been so tired, McCoy would have savoured the moment. As it was, the tension of their conversation having passed, McCoy realized he truly was beyond exhausted—and Jim was probably no better. All he wanted now was sleep, and tomorrow, he’d get to go down to the planet, where Jim clearly had something _extra-special_ prepared.

Suddenly worried, he asked, “Is everything ok, Jim? Is there something you’re not telling me? Something wrong with the ship?”

“No, the ship’s fine.” Jim’s voice was distracted, and he still seemed tense.

Suddenly, McCoy grinned, rolling them both onto the bed and pinching Jim’s butt as Jim yelped in surprise. “Rest up, kid. If I know you at all, we’re going to need it.” Sometimes, all Jim needed was a little distraction. McCoy still felt he was too young for the kind of responsibility he shouldered; maybe it was just getting to him.

But Jim didn’t seem inclined to take it any further, for which McCoy was grateful. He just wanted to sleep. They shifted around a bit, getting comfortable, until he was curled around Jim, and Jim’s body was curled around his. McCoy could feel himself dropping off to sleep.

Until Jim spoke again. “Bones? Whatever you see down there … whatever happens, just keep an open mind, ok?” Jim’s body may have been relaxed and pliant against his; but his voice was as anxious as ever.

McCoy just snorted, though. “Where you’re concerned, don’t I always?”

***********************************************

Transporter rooms always made McCoy tense and irritable. But watching Jim plunk down an almost obscene number of credits when they arrived at reception made him even more annoyed. Really, he’d promised Jim he’d just go with whatever happened—but he thought Jim trusted him a bit more than this by now. Did they really need all this to indulge whatever obscure kink Jim wanted to indulge in? The sex, so far, had been pretty good without whatever perversion Jim was planning. And the very least Jim could have done was clue McCoy in so he’d at least be _prepared_.

Whatever it was, though, Jim was being surprisingly reticent. McCoy had tried, but Jim had refused to explain until one point, when Bones had been pushing really hard, Jim just got this look in his eyes and said, “You promised, ok? I’m sorry, just—it’s the thing with this place, that whatever happens on Bacchus, stays on Bacchus. And I need it to be like that. If we’re going to do this, Bones, I need you to be ok with that. I need _us_ to be ok afterwards.”

And Jim had been so serious, and so apprehensive, that Bones had just let it go. Clearly, whatever it was was important to Jim. Jim wouldn’t force him into anything he didn’t want to do, he was sure—but more than that, McCoy wouldn’t let himself be forced. Plus, the waivers they’d signed had all explained ways to end the scenario whenever you wished.

It was perfectly safe.

There were, of course, even more waivers to sign once they got past reception—including ones that bound both Jim and McCoy not to say anything about each others’ participation in the same Experience. Then, Jim had a final questionnaire to fill out—stardate setting (present time), questions about McCoy’s involvement (yes, they were in a relationship, no, neither of them had any known medical conditions, except of course for Jim's slew of allergies, all of which needed to be precisely detailed) and then they both were required to provide blood and tissue samples and provide funeral directions--just a precaution, they were assured. 

McCoy was becoming increasingly unsure about all of it, however. What he more and more really wanted to do was grab Jim and go find some beach—surely this place had beaches—and lay around for a couple of days on solid ground, drinking good beer and better bourbon. But he could see that this was important to Jim, and so, fine, he’d go along with it. That was what a good boyfriend did, he supposed--and besides, once Jim got his mind onto something, it was usually best to just let it run its course.

Still, it was with some trepidation that he stepped onto the holodeck (bordello? orgy? dungeon?) …

… and into the bright Iowa sunshine.

**************************

It was late fall. The leaves were yellowed, and there was a nip in the air. They were in front of a tidy little white house with dark trim. There were flower beds neatly planted beside the concrete stairs that Jim bounded up, before he pounded vigorously on the front door. 

Which opened, revealing … Winona Kirk. 

“Damn it, Jim,” hissed McCoy, coming up behind Jim. “If this is some weird Oedipal thing, you can just forget it. I love you, but—“

“Bones. Shut _up_. She’ll hear us,” whispered Jim, desperation in his voice. And then Jim smiled, and his smile was so sweet and pure and open that McCoy wanted to cry. Had he _ever_ seen Jim smile like that? “Mom!”

The Winona Kirk that stood before them looked young and blonde and pretty and very unlike the tired, faded woman that Leonard remembered from all the photos in Kirk’s quarters. Her face lit up as she saw them. “Jimmy! And is this Leonard? Welcome!” Then she turned her head and hollered, much to his surprise, and much like he’d seen Jim do on several unfortunate occasions, “Sammy! George! Jimmy’s here!” She had good lungs.

Two young boys came barreling out of the front door, skidding to a stop in front of Jim. McCoy supposed these were Sammy and George. The kids threw themselves at Jim, entirely ignoring McCoy, talking a mile a minute. “Uncle Jim! Uncle Jim! You’re here! Dad said you weren’t coming until tomorrow! You promised to take us up on your starship next time we saw you. You promised!”

A dark haired young woman, small but her belly swollen in what McCoy estimated was her seventh or eighth month of pregnancy, followed behind the boys, calling sternly. “Kevin! Matthew! Inside, _now_. You are supposed to wash your hands before dinner, and quit bothering your Uncle Jim. He’s just gotten here, and he’s tired. Jimmy, it’s good to see you.” She smiled and leaned up to kiss Jim’s cheek, pulling him inside; he turned his head to kiss her on the lips: a gentle, chaste, brotherly sort of kiss.

“Hi, Maddy,” Kirk grinned at her. “Sam been treating you ok?” 

“Well, if he wouldn’t keep making me pregnant …”

“You need to move,” Jim told her seriously, frowning. “Away from Iowa. Winters are too cold here, and you’re so pretty …”

She giggled and swatted him on the arm, even as a tall, broad, very blond man came out of a doorway behind them, grunting questions and orders at both Jim and the kids, “Jimmy! Stop hitting on my wife, and come inside. Boys! Go wash up _now_. Glad you could make it, Jim. This your Len? D’you have more luggage?”

McCoy wondered if he’d ever been anyone’s Len. Not even Joss’s family had ever referred to him like that, and they’d been _married_. For years.

And Jim was still grinning like a fool, beaming at the world, juggling kids and luggage all while talking a mile a minute and dragging McCoy forward by the hand deeper into the house. McCoy was getting increasingly confused. Jim’s fantasy was … a dinner party? Wow. Some people had the strangest kinks.

And then Jim’s face light up with joy, and he looked so happy it _hurt_.

A tall, older man, still slender despite his age and almost as blue-eyed and blonde as Jim entered the now somewhat crowded living room. The man smiled as he saw Jim, before striding forward to wrap the younger man in a hug. “Happy Thanksgiving, son,” he murmured.

“Dad,” said Jim, practically clinging to what appeared to be his father before blurting, “I really missed you.” It almost looked like Jim was crying, and trying very hard not to.

Then the man stepped back, smiling fondly at Jim before ruffling his hair. Jim scowled, tears vanishing, and the man grinned broadly before turning to McCoy, Jim moving reluctantly away from his side. 

The guy held out his hand to McCoy. “Welcome to our home,” he greeted warmly. “I’m George Kirk. Don’t worry about the Admiral stuff, we don’t bother with that kind of thing here.”

McCoy could only look up at Jim’s blue eyes in that familiar-yet-different face, clearly the same one he’d studied on Academy PADDs, and blink stupidly in return. 

Jim was right when he warned him just before they beamed down. He really never could have imagined this. This, McCoy thought, was getting bloody _weird_.

***************************

They were given coffee and snacks and later, they were taken up to their room in the sprawling two-storey home. The room they were assigned was not fancy, it had a double bed covered in a crocheted coverlet, while the floor was covered by a shag carpet. A golden lab lounged at the foot of the bed, and when Jim saw the dog, he threw his bag on the floor and grinned as the dog bound up to him and jumped, begging to be petted with tail wagging wildly, even as Jim pushed him down. 

“Hey boy, I wondered where you were; did you miss me?” Jim had crouched down, and was petting and rubbing, getting licked and laughing before looking up at McCoy. “So, Bones, what do you think? The bed’s a bit small, but we’ll manage, yeah?”

McCoy just looked at the room—it looked like it could have been the holo-vid stock setting for a typical middle class family. Which this family was. Warm and welcoming, loving and accepting. Everything the holo-vids told you a family should be. It was hard not to be lulled into the comfort of it.

“Jim,” McCoy said slowly, “can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Jim, still distracted by the dog, before he pushed him away and started unpacking his bag, throwing clothes and toiletries randomly across the bed.

“I thought your sister-in-law’s name was Aurelan?”

“It was.”

“Then, how come ….”

“Why Maddy? She was a family friend—she was my friend, and I showed her a photo of Sam one summer, and suddenly, she had a huge crush on him. I always liked Maddy, met her on Tarsus; I thought she’d have been good for Sam. Sam only went to Deneva because Aurelan wanted him to, you know. She … well, I didn’t really get along with Aurelan, half the time, and I think Sam only married her because she became pregnant. Why?”

Aurelan was in her last trimester when she died, McCoy knew. That, as much as anything else, haunted Jim. “It was just, I remembered that …”

Jim just looked at him with a distant half-smile, but his face grew shuttered and closed even as his voice remained unnaturally calm. “This is a fantasy, Bones. None of it’s real. Maddy never saw her fifteenth birthday, and the real Sam died at Deneva, just about two months ago, and two weeks before I could get the Enterprise there, remember? They were going to have a boy, name the baby Peter. Peter George Samuel Kirk, after dad. Sam wanted me to be the godfather. You know what a godfather does, Bones? He protects a kid, if anything happens to them. There’s a whole thing in the christening—I’d have gone, I’d planned to go, it was why we were so close to Deneva in the first place, when the alarm came—“ Jim’s voice had been growing more disjointed, but he suddenlty caught himself, swallowing, and then the tone went abruptly back to that deadly calm. “Anyway. Sam always wanted a large family, so, I figured, with Maddy, he--doesn’t matter.” Jim looked sharply at McCoy, although the smile widened. “Don’t over-think this, Bones. My family loves you, and the food tomorrow will be great. They’re even making pie, pecan and peach, just for you, because I told then you liked it. Don’t you like … “ Jim looked away again, but McCoy could hear the undertone of hesitance and doubt in his voice, even though he kept smiling. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

McCoy had passed over from worry, to downright fear. He didn’t like the look on Jim’s face one bit. “Jim, let’s go back,” he said, making his words deliberate, willing Jim to look at him. “I don’t … I don’t think this is such a good idea for you, right now. Sam only died a few …”

“Ok,” said Jim calmly.

“Ok?” repeated McCoy, a bit confused by the quick capitulation. He had expected Jim to fight. Jim always fought. But after a brief moment of silence, McCoy didn’t care—he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Thanks, Jim,” he said quickly, moving to pick up his bag. “I know you paid a lot of money, but I’ll make it up to …”

“Oh, don’t look so worried,” said Jim, waving a hand airily. But he wasn’t looking at McCoy, and his smile was now painfully forced. “I don’t mind. I didn’t even know if you’d come, when I planned this, although I was kind of hoping you would. I’d have told them you were at a medical conference on Catalus or something if you’d said no, so it’s no big deal. We’re on shore leave, you didn’t think I would force you to stay or anything if you didn’t want, did you? I know this is weird, and you probably think … “ Jim’s voice caught and faltered, for a split second, before he continued, “well, whatever. This isn’t your thing, I get it. I just … I kind of wanted to come with you, and you did that for me, you let them meet you—Sam couldn’t believe I managed to land a doctor!” and Jim turned and flashed him a real grin now, so sweet and pure that it made McCoy want to scream, “Anyway, you came, and I am so, so grateful, don’t think I’m not. I’m sure there’s a beach somewhere with your name on it, or a ranch, or something—I’ll see you back at the ship?” And Jim was back to unpacking, relaxed and happy again.

“Jim, that’s not what I mean. I’m not leaving you here.” Fear was spiking, and he wasn’t sure why he was so goddamned scared. When Jim had gotten shore-leave approval, well over a month ago, McCoy had applauded the decision. But this, this was … not healthy. Not good. Not good at all.

But Jim was being obtuse, and his face was set into stubborn lines. There would be no budging him, not in this mood, McCoy knew. And all McCoy really had to go one was instinct, anyway—he knew lots of people besides Jim came and saw loved ones in this place; it was part of the draw. It just felt … wrong. 

Besides, McCoy may have been a medical doctor, and a man of science; but he had also learnt to trust his instincts. 

And still Jim smiled, although now it was faintly annoyed. “Don’t worry, Bones. Didn’t you read the pamphlets? It’s perfectly safe. Tomorrow there’ll be Thanksgiving dinner—and these holo-deck things are programmed so that anything you eat will taste just like the real thing, plus give you nutrients, so I won’t starve or get fat, don’t worry about that either—and then I’ll be back at the ship, as scheduled. No fuss, no muss. I won’t even get into trouble. Really. I’m with my family, and they’ll look after me.” He came over, and dropped a light kiss on McCoy’s lips, smiling reassuringly before moving away again. “Don’t worry.”

It was easy for him to say, thought McCoy, as anxiety and fear for Jim burned, hot and strong, in the pit of his stomach. He could almost _feel_ the ulcer forming.

And then Jim looked at him again, and now he did look visibly nervous, and couldn’t hide it. “Just … just remember, you promised you wouldn’t tell anyone about this, and we won’t talk about it again, ok?” 

And wow, Jim really thought that he could get away with that, McCoy thought. He really thought a waiver--a waiver that McCoy had signed when he’d thought that this was all some weird kinky sex fantasy, although what McCoy wouldn’t have given for all this to revert to some uncomfortable, simple sex fantasy--would protect him.

Jim’s blue eyes beseeched McCoy, though. Because Jim was vulnerable now. Jim would never have admitted anything—because hell, yes, this was an admission--except that he felt marginally safe here, McCoy realized. Because Jim had never even so much as shed a tear in McCoy’s presence over his brother’s death, or admitted to missing the father he never knew; he’d never admitted to that kind of need. No, Jim had revealed so much only because he felt he could hide behind the security and protection that signed and sealed legal documents could provide.

And that was the heart of the issue, wasn’t it? Nothing, and no one, had ever protected James T. Kirk from anything, and McCoy knew that his next words meant that Leonard H. McCoy wouldn’t be the one to start, either.

Because McCoy was about to give in.

“It’s ok, Jim,” McCoy said gently, before raising an eybrow. “I really can’t talk you into that beach?” At Jim’s shaking head, he sighed. “Alright. I’ll stay.”

He couldn’t help but smile in response to the joy and relief on Jim’s face. He couldn’t help it, even though he knew how wrong it was. How dangerous this all was.

“Just do me one favour, though, ok?”

“Anything, Bones," Jim said immediately, not even the trace of hesitation and McCoy knew he meant it (would always mean, it no matter what happened to them--that was just _Jim_ ). "You know that. You don’t know how much this means to--”

McCoy cut him off. “Remember that I love you. I will always love you.”

“Sure, Bones,” said Jim, too quickly. “I love you too.” 

Had it always been that easy, that rote? McCoy was starting to feel desperate, not sure what he could say; not sure what, if anything, would get through. He was starting to feel like he had in the last days of his marriage, before -- 

Then Jim paused, and looked up at McCoy, and the look in his eyes now was hard and edged, interrupting the tumbling thoughts. “You’re not part of the fantasy, you know. You don’t have to tell me stuff, you _never_ have to tell me stuff, just because you think I want to hear it. I thought you knew that. Don’t stay for that.”

“I’m not,” protested McCoy, unprepared for the abrupt mood shift. It was like walking through a minefield, he thought suddenly. “When have I ever blown smoke up your ass just for the sake of it?” But McCoy could see it now, the knowledge in Kirk that McCoy’s love, like anything else, was fleeting and easy and could certainly be earned, but could not be relied on.

Could not be trusted, and would disappear just as soon as Jim relaxed.

He couldn’t blame Jim, either. McCoy was divorced. Sometimes, he doubted the strength of his own love as well. Because he’d made Joss all kinds of promises, once upon a time. Promises that fell apart and crumpled into sawdust, only a few years later. He didn’t know that he could promise Jim things would be different. He didn’t know that he could do that. He’d always been honest with Jim about that. Because there was nothing that was certain. Hadn’t he told Jim that, time and again, that nothing was certain, and only fools promised eternity, because who the hell knew what would happen tomorrow?

He didn’t know what to say. He kissed Jim, then, letting his actions speak for him, feeling Jim relax into it after a moment. It was all he had to offer. But when he looked up into Jim’s face, that eerie smile was back. McCoy wasn’t sure that was an improvement.

This whole thing was fucked up. McCoy suddenly and desperately wished himself and Jim far, far away. God. What had Starfleet been thinking? 

Because the only positive thing here, as far as McCoy could tell, was the knowledge that he’d recently stocked the Enterprise’s supplies with the strongest and latest ulcer medications. 

****************************

The next day, they did not, as Bones had hoped, sleep in. Instead, two little boys bounced into their room at a little past 7 a.m. and whispered, in voices too loud to not be meant to wake them, asking if they were awake yet and if Uncle Jim could take them to visit the Enterprise _today_ , please, they’d been really good, please?

Jim, of course, who had been drooling all over McCoy’s chest (which, honestly, was disgusting but McCoy had long since given up trying to push Jim off of him in the dead of night, and by now had just learnt to, as with all annoying Jim things, tolerate this too) didn’t even twitch. He just cracked open one eye, said “I’m sleeping, boys,” and then proceeded to start snoring. Again. 

McCoy shook his head in disbelief. He knew how lightly Jim slept, and how quickly Jim could go from deep sleep to profoundly and distractingly awake, but it always kind of disturbed him. Especially because he couldn’t—he needed his rituals and routines and once awake, he couldn’t fall asleep again if you paid him.

“Jim,” he said, once the boys had sadly, and with a great show of reluctance, closed the door and left them alone again. “Jim, wake up.” He shifted and moved, jostling Jim until he finally slid out from under, letting Jim fall onto the mattress beneath. Jim, predictably, twitched and frowned, but kept right on snoring. 

“Jim!” McCoy called again, shaking the other man roughly. With bright sunlight beaming in through the eyelet curtains and over the crocheted coverlet, and everything looking so normal, this seemed even more wrong. Especially because Jim seemed so comfortable with it all, like he’d grown up here, like he belonged here, like this was the life he should have had.

Except it wasn’t. It was too perfect. All this was only a dream in Jim’s head. McCoy needed to remember that. Remember that it was all smoke and mirrors, despite how real it all looked, despite how real it all _felt_ , if they were to both get through this day.

It became hard to remember, though, as they both got up, and had to deal with the mundane tasks of brushing teeth and changing clothes, although the sex in the cramped shower stall that Jim induced him to—much against his will, although not without his enthusiasm, because there were _children_ right outside and just because Jim was immature and lost to all human decency and shame didn’t mean that McCoy was, too, but his protests were lost somewhere between Jim’s mouth and his tongue, and his hand on him rubbing gently, roughly, and oh so perfectly under the hot spray—was not exactly what McCoy would consider precisely _mundane_. 

It was hard to remember as he drank hot coffee, a dark roast perfectly brewed, and buttered toast with apricot preserve; as the children called and shouted as they drank their milk and played with the dog and hugged their parents, as Mrs. Kirk (Winona, she’d said to call her, Winona, she’d said with a smile) worked on trussing a very large turkey, while Maddy waddled around putting together the pastry dough. 

It was hard to remember as they bundled up the kids to go outside, to the gratification of both women (thank you so much for taking them for a few hours so we can get all this food done!) with the Admiral and Sam along for the ride. The kids clearly worshipped Jim—McCoy wondered if Jim had programmed that, or if even virtual kids naturally gravitated to that which was merely a taller version of themselves—and fell all over themselves to show every leaf and pebble and insect they found to their laughing Uncle Jim. 

It was hard to remember during the mock fight involving fists of crinkly dry leaves (McCoy wasn’t quite sure how that began or ended, and wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know, except that he shouldn’t have been surprised since Jim was involved and realized this truth as soon as the other two men said as much, while he mostly tried to make sure too many leaves didn’t end up in places no leaf ought to be), it was hard to remember as they came in to sweet tea and chicken sandwiches and sports matches on the vidscreen, with Sam teasing Jim and Jim blushing in such an un-Jim-like way during the breaks it made McCoy grin from ear to ear, especially when his parents chimed in and Jim began to squirm in embarrassment, it was hard to remember when he could smell the turkey roasting in the oven and the pie baking and it was particularly hard to remember as he found himself with Jim’s hand in his left, a six year old’s chubby hand clutching his fingers on his other side, sitting in front of a table laden with all manner of food—sweet potato and carrots and string beans and a turkey looking even larger than it had set in the middle of the table--while the Admiral’s steady voice recited a quiet, heartfelt grace.

And as he looked up, and everyone smiled, Winona turned and looked around the room. “So,” she smiled, “now comes the good part. What are you grateful for, this year?”

The room was perfectly silent for a heartbeat, and for some reason, McCoy felt unutterably afraid.

*********************************************

The silence stretched a moment too long. The kids shifted and eyed the food. One small hand let go of his and reached towards a dish. McCoy raised an eyebrow, and the boy’s hand retracted, but it was clenched tightly and quickly hidden under the table, rather than being replaced in McCoy’s.

Finally, Sam cleared his throat, and just like that, the tension—and McCoy’s sudden fear—dissipated. “Yeah, ok, I’ll start. I’m grateful for my boys—and you will not throw those peas, Kevin Augustus, if you want dessert--and for whoever we’re going to meet in January, and I’m grateful, every damn day, that Maddie said yes. I’m also grateful that Jimmy brought his doctor here, so she only threw up and cursed my name for a few minutes this morning—“ and there was a pause as he chuckled and ducked a punch from the woman in question “--and that she made me cherry pie.” Sam barked all of this out in a rather gruff voice, with the air of someone reciting a confession he’d rather not, but he was holding Maddy’s hand tenderly and grinning, McCoy noted. “Ok, that’s me. Maddy?”

And so it went. McCoy watched the people sitting around the table, listened to snatches of conversation, listened to whoever was speaking at the moment, and kept an eye on Jim.

None of this was real, he reminded himself. This was all some elaborate fabrication, a fantasy—oddly wholesome though it was, considering it was Jim--created out of Jim’s over-active imagination.

Still, it felt all too real, and too damn comfortable. If it was affecting him so much, all of this, what was this doing to Jim? What did it mean that Jim had asked him to be here, to hear all of this? And so he worried. He worried about afterwards. He worried about Jim.

He refused to worry about _them_.

“ … well, I’m also thankful for Leonard’s presence—the medication is safe for the baby, right?” 

Maddy turned her head to look at him, and he inclined his own, just slightly, and smiled reassuringly. “Of course, darlin’. I’ll write you a prescription before I leave.”

Maddie beamed back at him and he saw, in that instant, how the stern Sam could fall so much in love with this tiny woman, “but I’m more grateful that this baby will be out of me in less than two months, and I’m grateful that my husband has agreed to wake up with the baby at night, right, sweetie?” Sam, McCoy noted with an inward grin, looked both chagrined and defeated. It was clear who wore the pants in that family, no matter Sam’s height and heft and Maddy’s petite frame. “… and of course, I’m grateful that our Jimmy’s found someone. Your mother was starting to worry, Jimmy.” Jim blushed, Winona looked slightly guilty, and Sam grinned wickedly at his squirming younger brother, while Maddie continued serenly. “And I’m grateful that Matthew has gotten straight A’s this year,” the older boy, normally the quieter one, beamed at the recognition, “… and I’m grateful that Kevin scored six goals this year …” the younger one played soccer, McCoy recalled, or so he’d gathered from the non-stop babble that was their afternoon. 

Suddenly, he missed Joanna with a pang, wondered what she was doing, and thought of how much she’d have enjoyed this kind of thing. Because this was exactly the kind of thing she used to enjoy, he remembered with the mixture of love, longing, and guilt that he felt whenever he thought of his baby girl. His family used to do Thanksgiving big, every year, and he and Joss and Jo, when she’d arrived, had always gone to his parents’ place, even the year after his father had died.

His mother still did Thanksgiving, he knew, even though he hadn’t gone there for dinner since the divorce. He wondered if Joanna missed it. 

Maybe she didn’t, he realized suddenly. He knew his mother still invited Joss and Jo, every year. He wondered if they went without him. He wondered if they went, even after he’d chosen to exile himself. He wouldn’t know. His family never mentioned Jocelyn, or Joanna, even though he knew they saw them. 

He’s never asked.

Kevin was speaking now, in his trademark non-stop ramble, as he forcibly drew his attention back to the conversation at hand. “… I’m gwateful for my twucks and for the leaves and for mommy and daddy and yeah I guess I’m thank – thankful for Matt too, and because Uncle Jimmy let me have extwa candy when Mommy wasn’t looking this morning and for Santa and for …

Bones grinned to himself as he watched Sam kick Jim under the table. Jim deserved it, the brat, thought McCoy and laughed openly at the equally chagrined and guilty expression on Jim’s face, although he wasn’t able to resist drawing a knuckle across Jim’s cheek in apology, even as Jim scowled. It also didn’t escape him how Winona managed to notice the exchange and quirk a rebuking eyebrow at both her sons, causing Sam to glare and Jim to pout like the five year old he still remained.

Sam, of course, for all his glaring at Jim, had already pulled McCoy aside that morning for the express purpose of pretty much threatening him with painful and lingering death if he so much as hurt a hair on his younger brother’s shiny blond head. But Bones wasn’t going to tell Jim about that. Jim didn’t need to know that his fantasy brother was an over-protective macho man, especially when the real one had gone off and left him behind, so many years ago. 

Especially when the real one had just died in pain, far from help, and far from home, and well before Jim could save him, despite what could only be considered heroic efforts. 

Kevin was still rambling. He’d grow out of the minor speech impediment, McCoy knew, especially when his teeth came in properly, but he wasn’t sure that the asthma meds he was on were the best ones for a child of his age; he’d make a couple of suggestions to Maddie, things to discuss with the boy’s paediatrician.

Or he _would_ have, he corrected himself, if any of this were real.

They eventually had to cut Kevin off, to allow his older brother—Matthew, solemn and dark-eyed—a turn. Matthew’s list was much more deliberate, McCoy noticed, each word pronounced carefully and precisely. McCoy’s lips quirked, before he sighed inwardly. Almost like a Vulcan child, he bet Spock would have said, before everything. 

Vulcan children were a rare and precious thing, now.

He watched Winona, more than listening to the words, as she spoke. She radiated happiness, he realized, and that was the biggest change from the woman he knew, from photographs and one brief meeting, as Jim’s mother. He let the flow of her voice, as she thanked God for her sons, for the fact that her family was healthy and all together, for the food, for …

“…and, as always, I’m grateful that George talked me out of sending you boys to Tarsus, that summer.”

Jim had gotten very quiet, McCoy noticed. The entire family had. 

Admiral Kirk—McCoy could call him George, but couldn’t really think about Jim’s father as a mere George—turned to Winona and pulled up their joined hands to his mouth, turning hers over and dropping a kiss on his wife’s palm. The look between them made McCoy’s heart ache, and when he dared a glance at Jim, he was surprised by the emotions in Jim’s expression, not the least of which was anger.

McCoy hadn’t known that Jim was on Tarsus. He wondered whether it was true—whether it _could_ be true—but knew, somewhere, even as he wanted to deny the knowledge, that it was. Knew that this was the kind of detail the simulation wouldn’t invent. And he knew—he knew that Jim had included the information because it mattered.

He wondered if Jim meant for him to find out, this way. Wondered why this information—clearly relevant, clearly significant--wasn’t in Jim’s file. 

He wondered what Jim would say when it was his turn.

He wondered what he himself would say, should say, when it was time for his own.

The Admiral cleared his throat, and said into the silence, still looking at his wife, “You coming home for your birthday in March, there, Jimmy?”

“Uh, I don’t know, dad …” Jim was staring at the table, not looking up. There was a strange, sad tension around the table, and Winona had tears in her eyes.

“We’ll see what we can do,” said McCoy, finding Jim’s hand again under the table, because Jim had pulled it away some time ago. McCoy wasn’t surprised to feel it balled into a fist. He worked to open it, then laced their fingers together tightly and squeezed. Jim’s fingers were cold.

The Admiral turned to smile at McCoy, and said simply, “See that you do. Jimmy hasn’t missed a year yet, and it would be a shame to start.” 

And then the table erupted in calls of, “What do you want to do this year, Jimmy?” “How about coming to our place this year, Jimmy?” “Can you come visit for _my_ birthday too, Uncle Jim? You said you’d let me ride on your motorcycle when I was older, and I’ll be seven!” “Is there something special you want this year, sweetheart?”

Gradually the hulaballoo died down, and it was the Admiral’s turn. His voice was steady and clear, as he spoke of gratitude for his family, his health, their presence here this day. He laughed as he spoke of being grateful for Sam, his first born, and the scrapes he got into as a boy; his misbehaviour and ultimately, his settling down into responsible adulthood. He spoke of his grandchildren, and how proud they all were of them, while the boys smiled and smirked and Matthew squirmed while Kevin blushed. 

The grinning tow-headed Kevin, with his charmingly irresistible gap-toothed smile, was a young Jim Kirk in the making McCoy decided. Heaven help them all.

And then the Admiral spoke of Jimmy, who he laughingly referred to as the miracle space-baby, sharing a smile with Winona that had layers of unspoken history, “who was born healthy, despite all the odds, on that extremely shaky shuttle. But we arrived safely, and all I could think was--thank god that the auto-pilot was still working!”

Winona leaned over and kissed her husband’s cheek, her hand still held tight in his. 

But Admiral Kirk wasn’t done, speaking of family mishaps survived, and McCoy was struck by how much family history there was here, in this telling. 

Of course, family history was kind of the point of Thanksgiving. He glanced askance at Jim, trying for subtlety—which he’d never been very good at. _Jim_ was better at subtlety, and that was really saying something.

He wondered what kind of family history Jim had really had. 

“I’m sorry about your car, dad,” Jim was saying, in a voice worryingly subdued, and very un-Jim-like. McCoy started paying close attention, fast.

“I’m just glad you survived, son,” replied what McCoy reminded himself was Not-George. “Not that I was happy about your behaviour at the time, mind. But you were a boy. When Sam told us what you’d done, your mother and I were beside ourselves. We didn’t know what else to do, other than call the police, and then it was a trick to get them not to lay charges. Against us, for letting a twelve-year-old drive.” 

Winona and George were smiling fondly, but Jim wasn’t, McCoy noticed. He wasn’t even looking up. He’d pulled his hand away, again, too, in favour of shredding his napkin.

“I’m sorry … I’m sorry I was so difficult when I was younger. I know, you only even thought about Tarsus because I was being so difficult that summer, and I...” The words were laced with guilt, and it was McCoy who kicked Jim under the table, this time, not entirely sure what Jim was going on about, but not liking the look in Jim’s eyes, or the self-recriminating tone. Jim’s voice cut off, but he didn’t look up, staring fixedly at the tablecloth. Even the kids were still, reacting to the tension. Kevin looked like he was going to cry, and McCoy put an arm around the little boy, pulling him into his side.

“Jimmy?” Winona’s voice was somewhat confused, but gentle and firm. “You were never difficult. You got good grades, and were so quiet I sometimes wished you _would_ misbehave. One of your teachers was even worried about you, I remember … “

“Jim.” The Admiral’s voice was firm and commanding. It was a voice that brooked no disobedience, no doubt. The voice of a Starfleet Admiral. “Look at me.” And Jim did, raising his eyes to his father’s, and the need in them was so raw and open that McCoy wanted to—

He didn’t know what he wanted to. But it was too much. Too much, and –

The Admiral started to speak, in a clear, firm voice, and McCoy knew, just knew, that these were the words that Jim needed to hear, the words that Jim had probably always needed to hear, “Your mother and I have always been –“

Everything and everyone abruptly blinked out.

“The time is now 14:00 hours, Stardate 2262.39. Your session has been terminated. We hope you have enjoyed your Experience with us, and we look forward to visiting with you again.” The voice was robotic, impersonal, and final. 

The people around them had disappeared and the food table before them had dissolved, leaving them sitting on bare metal chairs in a white, sterile room. McCoy blinked at the sudden change. It was jarring. It was disconcerting. 

The voice overhead was still speaking, telling them to exit to the right.

McCoy stood, and looked over at Jim. Jim hadn’t moved. “Come on, Jim,” he said, nudging the other man. “It’s time to go.”

Jim didn’t respond. He sat unmoving, still staring straight ahead, at where his “father” had been, moments ago.McCoy was almost about to speak when Jim stood abruptly. “Huh? Yeah. I guess. Sorry you didn’t get any food.” Jim’s voice was toneless, and the smile plastered on his face made McCoy itch to shake him.

“Come on,” McCoy repeated, helplessly, grabbing Jim’s elbow, and dragging him towards the exit door. He didn’t like the look in Jim’s eyes. Not one bit. “You owe me some pie.”

Because Jim’s eyes, those eyes that had been the brightest of blue seconds before, were now dark with devastation and despair. 

It was almost worse than when they’d left Deneva.

No, scratch that. It _was_ worse.

**********************

There wasn’t much to say, really, as they went out the marked exit and completed paperwork, Jim nodding and smiling and smoothly thanking the staff before signing the last of the forms and signing where required before leaving the building completely. There wasn’t much to say as Kirk flipped open his communicator, requesting to be beamed back to the ship despite the fact that they had a full day of leave left. There wasn’t much to say, really, as they stepped off the transporter pad to be greeted by the transporter tech—McCoy couldn’t for the life of him remember the kid’s name, although Jim seemed to know him, of course--and Spock, who had come down to welcome his Captain back to the ship, raising his eyebrow and commenting only that they were back early before succinctly yet comprehensively reporting on the goings on of the past 48 hours. There wasn’t much to say as they entered the turbo-lift towards Deck 3 where the officers’ quarters were located, and there wasn’t much to say as they nodded at Spock and stepped out of the turbo-lift together, while Spock continued on toward the bridge.

Fuck that. There was _everything_ to say. He just didn’t know where to start.

“So, uh, I’ll see you later, then, Bones?” Jim wasn’t quite meeting his eyes, duffel over one shoulder, social smile still plastered across his face, and already turning away. McCoy didn’t let him, putting a hand onto his shoulder, stilling him. 

“Are you ok?” He’d wanted to ask gently, but the words ended up barked out like more of a demand than a question, and he almost winced at the sound of his own voice.

But Jim barely reacted, looking distracted and eerily not altogether _there_. “Yeah. Not really. I don’t really want to talk about it, Bones. Just … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you go. Are you mad?” Jim looked hopefully, earnestly up at McCoy. 

McCoy blinked. Grateful as he was for the sudden honesty, he couldn’t believe it was an _actual_ question. Jim did fifteen things every day calculated specifically to annoy him and expected to be forgiven, but … 

“No, Jim. I’m not mad,” McCoy replied, at a loss. 

“Right, then.” Jim flashed a grin, and turned to go. 

McCoy followed. 

About halfway down the hallway, Jim turned slightly, finally noticing McCoy behind him. He frowned, just slightly. “I … I kind of want to be alone for a bit, Bones, if you don’t mind. So I’m just gonna …”

Watching Jim’s face, hearing the plea in Jim’s words, Bones almost considered, for one brief moment, giving in. But then he quashed the impulse. “Actually,” interrupted McCoy, “I do mind. I don’t think you should be alone right now.” McCoy made his words clear and firm and waited resolutely, if nervously, for the repercussions.

None came. 

Jim was practicing that not-smiling smile again, the kind McCoy bet he used on officials and diplomats and people that just didn’t know him very well but that he needed to make nice with, before saying, “I just need some space, y’know? Too much family can do that. You know how it is.” Jim’s smile wasn’t _exactly_ what he’d call creepy, but for an expression of emotion it was eerily blank. 

McCoy forced himself to push Jim harder. “No, Jim. No. This is my line. You’re not … you are emotionally compromised as much as anyone could be. I’m relieving you of duty for 24 hours, and I absolutely _will not_ leave you alone. You’d better not do anything stupid, you hear me?” 

For a moment, anger flared in Jim’s eyes. McCoy was almost relieved, because at least the anger wasn’t blank, and wasn’t fake. But then it smoothed away, replaced again by that false smile. “I’m scheduled to be off anyway. No worries,” said Kirk simply. As if that was going to do anything to alleviate his worry, not when Jim’s face was that closed off, not when his smile was fake and reassuring and nothing more. 

McCoy was forced to try a different tack. “Well, if you don’t want me to be mad, talk to me. Better yet, eat with me. I went along with you, and didn’t get any dinner. You owe me that much.”

Anger flashed again, before clearing as swiftly as it had come. “Yeah, sure Bones. Just give me a minute or two to change, and I’ll meet you in the mess, ok?” So casual, so smooth. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have fallen for it easily. 

“No, I’ll come with you. We can eat in your quarters.” Kirk wanted public, wanted distraction, wanted an excuse to talk about nothing but the weather. As if McCoy was going to let him get away with that.

Once again, anger flashed across Kirk’s face. This time, his expression took just a beat longer before it smoothed out again, and the smile had grown more brittle, less secure. “Sure, Bones. Whatever you want.” Jim’s right hand, McCoy saw, was clenched translucent white over bone.

McCoy, once again, had the feeling he was picking his way through a minefield.

Then again, his mama hadn’t raised a coward. And he’d never been the type to leave well enough alone. “So, that’s your family, huh?” he asked just as Jim palmed the door open. 

McCoy stepped through just in time to see Jim whirl around, fury blazing in those bluest of eyes. “That wasn’t my family, Bones,” he hissed. “How could it have been? I never knew my father. I never knew him, although everyone else always seemed to. He was famous. History knew him, but not me, and I always … “ 

Halfway through, and even as McCoy watched, the fury burnt itself out, leaving … 

What fire always left. Devastation. Ashes. “Whatever, Bones, it doesn’t matter. What do you want to eat?” Jim’s voice would have sounded easy and untroubled to anyone who didn’t know him. To McCoy, it sounded weary and defeated.

Jim. Who didn’t believe in defeat.

God. He wanted to fix this. He wanted to … “Jim, talk to me. What are you thinking?”

“There’s nothing to say. Thanks for coming. I’m having roast beef. You want to chance the replicated pie?” At that moment, Jim could have taught lessons in detachment to a Vulcan.

But McCoy was a stubborn, persistent bastard. Joss had told him so, any number of times. “No. Tell me about your father.” 

“Will you ever just let anything go?” Kirk sounded almost amused, now. “And what’s there to tell, anyway? As I told you, I didn’t know him.” He paused, and then he said, almost reluctantly, and half to himself, “Mom, she never got it, and she was always so sad, and Sam always told me not to worry her, and … Sam was the closest thing to a father I ever had—he always watched out for me, until he left, and now he’s dead. He’s dead, Bones, and I can’t … I … “ he breathed in sharply, and let it out slowly. “Besides,”, and the grin he turned on Bones was sharp and blinding, “Mom _hates_ Thanksgiving.” 

McCoy felt a frisson of panic. He _couldn’t_ fix this. He wouldn’t know where to start. 

“You are allowed to miss them, Jim,” he said instead. “You are _expected_ to miss him.” McCoy stepped closer, wanting so much to wrap Jim in his arms, but Jim flinched away and stepped back. 

“Well, whatever. What would you know? Your family is still around. You’re just not with them.” Jim’s words were vicious, and struck deeper than he had probably meant. Realization at what he’d just said hit a moment too late, flashed across his face, but the words hung in the air, even though McCoy could see Jim wanted to take the words back.

“Bones—“

But McCoy was hurt and confused and angry, too, and the words had been a spark to dry tinder. It was too much, all at once, and Bones knew, knew he should just walk away. But he was angry now, and so he did what he had always done when he got angry—he attacked. “Yeah, Jim, what would I know? You never told me any of that. You never even warned me. It was interesting, that’s for sure. You couldn’t have just told me you’d been on Tarsus?” 

Almost before he’d said it, he realized how incredibly stupid he was. He realized that this particular defense mechanism had already destroyed one important relationship.

It didn’t stop him.

“I … that wasn’t all true, you know.” And Jim was not shouting back; his voice had gotten quiet, defensive. 

Later, he would be grateful for the sound-proofed walls, but right now, he’s beyond control. Because McCoy could not, could not believe that Jim had the gall, the unmitigated gall to lie to him now. 

“Jim!” McCoy shouted his name, exasperated. There was a warning there, in Jim’s tone, in the very angle of his head and the cast of his shoulders, but McCoy had hit his limit, and wasn’t listening to the clues and signs and red flags he’s normally so attuned to. He’s suddenly frustrated with Jim and his stupid damn issues, as if he’s the only one. “You drag me into this … this mess with your family, and you can’t even bother to explain …”

And Jim, ever one to throw himself into a good fight, retaliated in kind. Right on cue. “Fuck you, Bones! Don’t you get it? The whole family thing is _over_. Dad and Sam are dead. Mom’s divorced, ever since Frank—he couldn’t handle us, I guess, and … Aurelan had an older sister--she was divorced, had a couple of boys. She used to bring her kids over all the time, they were good boys, I liked them, they’d call me sometimes--but after Sam died, she told me she didn’t want me talking to her boys, not anymore. She doesn’t want them anywhere near me. She’s right. I’m a starship Captain now anyways, never home, and they’ll be better off this way. Mom’s better off too, without me sticking around constantly. Look, Bones, I’m sorry to have dragged you into it, it didn’t turn out how I planned. I’ll make it up to you, won’t bother you again, but please, just let it the hell _go_.” By the end of the tirade, Jim sounded almost calm--reasonable, even--if you ignored the actual words.

Appalled by how much he’d missed, how much he hadn’t even noticed, McCoy blurted the first thing in his head, “She doesn’t blame you, Jim. She couldn’t.” And in the stretching silence that followed, he realized that he didn’t really know. She absolutely _shouldn’t_ , she had no right, none; but he didn’t know if Aurelan did, anyway.

Jim didn’t answer.

“So what was that about Tarsus, Jim.” The words were out of his mouth, falling into the terrible silence before he’d had a chance to properly think them through. Because even though he knew this was the wrong time, knew that Jim must be fragile beyond belief right now, even though he _knew_ better, knew how volatile everything was and that they were _both_ stressed and on edge—had been on edge for _weeks_ and he should just let it go for now--he couldn’t help himself. Time to lay everything out. 

Besides, he wanted to know, needed to know, and he knew he might not get another chance. 

And partly, he wanted to hurt Jim, a little, because he couldn’t help how hurt and upset and confused he felt. At the same time that he wanted to know more, he _didn’t_ want to know-- _this_ at all—and he hadn’t wanted to have found out, not indirectly like that, and not about Jim, of all people. He felt manipulated. He felt downright angry. And now that he knew, he wanted … he wasn’t sure what he wanted.

He wanted to change the past, except he didn’t even know what that meant anymore.

The reaction he got wasn’t the one he expected. 

Because Jim reacted like a match to dry tinder. “Whatever! You want to know? Fine. It was mostly my fault, anyway. I knew mom had to go away sometimes, and I tried to be good, I really did, but mom and Frank—they were busy, they were always so busy, and Sam … Sam was a teenager, he didn’t want me around, a lot of the time—he was old enough to look after himself, and besides, he had a job and summer camp and a girlfriend and stuff, and – I was only nine, mum had to go into deep space where there wasn’t much communication and they—they thought I’d have fun, with Aunt Sue and Uncle Bob. That’s what they told me, anyway. Tarsus was an agricultural colony, you know. It was pretty, and green. It was supposed to _produce_ food. They told me I’d enjoy it.” And Jim’s voice had dwindled to a whisper. A bare, bare whisper.

“Jim,” breathed Bones, anger long forgotten.

“So I tried extra hard when I got there. And then … ‘Go with Kodos, Jimmy,’ Uncle Bob said. ‘Be a good boy, kiddo.’ And I didn’t want to go—I didn’t—but I did, quietly, because Uncle Bob said to listen, and mom had told me I should be extra-good—she was on some mission, and I missed her but I knew that sometimes she couldn’t stay in touch--and then they went, quietly, as well. ‘Don’t ask questions,’ he said. And I didn’t. I was good, I was, I—“

“Jesus, Jim. That’s enough. I’m sorry.” McCoy tried again to wrap his arms around Jim, tried to wrap him in comfort but Jim was having none of it, shrugging him off, pacing and restless, his mouth still moving, speaking too quickly, babbling an endless stream of horrible, terrible words. 

“Part of me always wondered, you know? Wondered if they knew, if they somehow knew and were trying to get rid of me. Sam always said that they hadn’t really wanted me, and I wasn’t the easiest kid, you know, and Sam said …”

“Shut the fuck up, do you hear me?” McCoy shouted the words, drowning out Jim’s voice, cutting off the ugly flow. “Shut the fuck up, right now, and if you ever, _ever_ , even suggest something like that again I will hit you so hard you won’t see tomorrow, do you hear me? They loved you, I love you, and no one, _no one_ sane would ever send a child, a goddamned child into that, Jim. No one. I promise. I promise.” And now he did hug Jim, hanging on when Jim tried to shrug him off, hanging on when Jim struggled, and hanging on harder when Jim finally stilled, crying helplessly into McCoy’s shirt.

He walked them backward towards the bed, sitting on it, pulling Jim with him, and still holding on. He rocked them both, a little, re-arranging Jim in his arms so it was a little more comfortable. He was starting to feel the strain, the exhaustion, the ache in his arms as he continued to hold Jim, but he shifted only enough that he could pull him impossibly closer. 

It was a long time later that he heard Jim say, so softly he almost missed it, “I always told myself, I always told myself that if dad had lived … if dad had lived, he’d have really wanted me. I mean, _really_ , and he wouldn’t have let mom send me away.” Jim’s voice was muffled by the soft, thick fabric of McCoy’s shirt. McCoy still understood each word perfectly. 

Because that’s what this had all been about, hadn’t it? He tightened his hold on Jim, murmuring, “She didn’t know, baby. She couldn’t.” He stroked a large hand over Jim’s head, smoothing the bright strands.

“Mom never wanted me to join Starfleet. She was pissed at Pike for a long time, even though she’s known him for like ever.” Jim pulled back and looked up at him now, blue eyes washed with tears, even though the voice was steady, matter of fact.

“I’m sure she was just worried. She’s proud of you, Jim. You know she is.” Jim’s so young, and so old, and McCoy wondered how he hadn’t ever seen it before. Wondered how much else was hidden under the flash and glamour. 

Jim’s moved away again, getting up, drifting restlessly again around the room. “Sam, I don’t know. I just … I left, right after the memorial, even though she asked me to stay. She looked so … lost, but I couldn’t stay, Bones. I … there was a mission, and I just … “

He knew. He’d seen. Jim had been difficult to be around, in those days; he had been looking for any excuse to run. As McCoy himself had once done.

“Your Mom must have gone back to Earth, by now,” McCoy said instead, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“Yeah, she keeps asking me to visit.” Jim sounded distracted, but he had paused, looking down at a photograph on his nightstand; McCoy looked down at it too from over Jim’s shoulder. 

It was a photo of a woman, and a young child. The little boy was blond and blue-eyed and smiling, all chubby cheeks and dimples. The woman was smiling, and while her eyes were a little tired, a little sad, her smile was genuine: proud and joyful and filled with love.

He went up to Jim, and wrapped his arms around him from behind. McCoy looked down at the photo of the woman, thought of the woman he’d seen speaking to Jim, right after the memorial. She was older than the Winona in the holodeck, older than the Winona in the photo, and had looked even more tired and sad. But the look in her eyes when she looked at Jim … she loved her son, more than anything.

“You know, Jim, maybe that’s a good idea. I think I’d like to meet her.”

******************************

**Author's Note:**

> End! Thanks for reading.
> 
> The prompt in full was this: _How jim kirk broke leonard mccoy’s heart:_  
>  _The crew encounters some holodeck-like technology, or maybe the "Shore Leave" planet. Kirk wants McCoy to participate in the scenario he's imagined/programmed and asks him not to judge him for it. McCoy assumes it's some kinky sex fantasy and rolls his eyes, but agrees. Jim's deepest, darkest fantasy: a big dinner with his family (could be during the holidays). George Kirk is alive, Winona is happy and vibrant; they're still very much in love and proud of their son for all he's accomplished. Sam and his wife/kids are there (for maximum angst potential, perhaps the real Sam has already died on Deneva?) and everyone is thrilled that Jimmy has finally brought his young man home to meet the family. When the vision fades, Jim is sad and ashamed; Bones just wraps him up in his arms and holds on tight._  
>  **Thanks:** Thanks to who provided an amazingly irresistable and beautifully detailed prompt (I actually felt vaguely guilty about writing this, because the prompt was so good), and to st_anon, because without the meme, I’d have never written any fic in this ‘verse at all.:-) 
> 
> Comments--positive or critical, brief or detailed--are always welcomed, considered, savoured and treasured.


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